


Mea Culpa

by Daniela_is_not_amused



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arya Stark Feels, Arya feels guilty, Arya-centric, Assassin Arya, Badass Arya, Dead Daenerys Targaryen, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Family Angst, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, House Stark, House Stark Feels, Jon Snow is King of The Seven Kingdoms, King Jon Snow, Multi, Protective Arya Stark, Protective Jon Snow, Protective Siblings, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sibling Bonding, Sort Of, Spoilers, Tyrion Lannister is Jon's Hand, Unreliable Narrator, sad arya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:17:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daniela_is_not_amused/pseuds/Daniela_is_not_amused
Summary: They try to hide it, Arya can see the effort they all put into making her more comfortable, but Arya isn’t stupid, she knows they’d rather have her somewhere else, somewhere far away from their home, the place where they’re supposed to feel happy and safe.--After the war, as the world moves on and people start to rebuild their life, Arya can't help but to feel like an intruder in her family's home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> english is not my first language; not beta read; none of the characters mentioned is mine and i'm not making money out of this. comments and welcomed and appreciated.

Arya doesn’t blame them, honestly, she doesn’t, but knowing that the fault lies with herself isn’t exactly a comforting thought, especially coupled with the sort of crippling loneliness that comes with being deemed a danger to society and a known assassin.

Okay, that may be a slight exaggeration, although going by how Arya feels about her current situation, it really doesn’t seem like it.

She has access to all of Winterfell and Jon insists that she can come and go whenever she feels like but he’d “prefer to keep her close to him” so they don’t have to drag her halfway across the North every single time they need her for yet another council.

Which is often.

Too often, Arya thinks, but doesn’t say.

She doesn’t say much at all, these days, preferring to blend into the shadows and be ignored over being stared at with mistrust, disgust or, worst of all, fear.

They try to hide it, Arya can see the effort they all put into making her more comfortable, but Arya isn’t stupid, she knows they’d rather have her somewhere else, somewhere far away from their home, the place where they’re supposed to feel happy and safe, no matter how passionately Jon insists that isn’t true.

But Jon is an eternal optimist, Jon doesn’t understand that people who’ve never known Jon's Arya, the Arya before their father’s death and the war, who’ve only ever known her as a mindless mass murderer, don’t have any reason to trust her or want her close. They’re accepting Arya into their midst because they care about Jon, as a favour to Jon for everything he has done for them, not out of the good of their hearts or a desire to rehabilitate something that is, almost certainly, broken beyond repair.

Arya has mentioned this to Jon, once. The heartbroken look, damp eyes and hoarse whisper of her name it earned her have convinced her not to try again.

So Arya continues to let Jon drag her to dinners with his friends from the night watch, conversations coming to abrupt and awkward halts the moment they step into the room, and free nights where everyone sits cramped together in the far away chairs or down on the floor, nowhere near the spot on the bench Jon had made Arya’s by pushing Arya into the first time around.

Jon is doing what he’s convinced is the right thing, as usual, only that right doesn’t always mean good or nice, and feeling completely, devastatingly alone in a room full of people definitely isn’t either of those.

The only person Arya hasn’t met so far in the three weeks she’s been out of what Jon calls a medical chamber and Arya thinks of as just another circle of hell, is Tyrion Lannister.

An ally, who helped them defeat Cersei and crown Jon as King of the Seven Kingdoms, despite his former connection to Daenerys, apparently. Away on business somewhere halfway around the world but probably hearing all about the huge mistake he’s made in allowing Arya into Jon’s life once again, from the other Lords.

It’s really no wonder that Arya is less than enthusiastic about meeting the man.

You only get one chance at a first impression, and Arya didn’t even get to make her herself.

***

Arya shuffles into the kitchen shortly before four in the morning for some of the Master’s herbal tea, a nasty concoction that always reminds her of vegetables left out in the sun for a little too long, but never fails to put her right back to sleep after being woken by dreams she stubbornly refuses to analyze or even think about.

She still gets this knot in her stomach whenever she pulls out one of the teabags, something in the back of her mind itching and screaming at her to go ask permission first or to buy some for herself instead despite Jon having assured her, time and again, that this is her home as well.

The tea is instantly forgotten, however, when Arya steps into the room only to find Tyrion sitting at the table, books, plural, open in front of him and papers scattered all around him, mumbling to himself as he plays with an empty glass of wine.

None of all that is what completely throws Arya for a loop, though, the reason for her freezing in the doorway is the drawings displayed in front of the man that look suspiciously like a better version of Bran’s unused adapted saddle.  

Tyrion seems to come to the conclusion that, whatever he’s expecting to do tonight isn’t going to happen and lets out a tired sigh before reaching for the also empty jug.

The imp sighs once more.

Arya doesn’t realise the quiet, almost inaudible chuckle is coming from her until Tyrion’s eyes snap up to fix on her.

Swallowing hard, throat suddenly dry around the lump in it, Arya stares at him, unsure what to do or say now that she’s standing face to face with the man she’s done her best to avoid ever since he got back a couple of days ago.

It’s not that she’s afraid of him. She could kill him in a second and be gone the next, never to be found by her brother’s men.

No - she isn’t afraid of him. She just… doesn’t know what to make of him.

He’s dangerously smart, she’s knows that much. Is - was - loyal to his family by default, despite the horrors and mistreatment they had inflicted upon him. He was kind to Sansa, before and after their marriage, and tried to protect her and keep her sane while she was stuck in the lion’s den.

Still, she doesn’t knows him so she doesn’t know what to do.

The decision is made for her when Tyrion jumps up, hesitating for only a second at the quiet growl his sudden movement elicits from Arya, marches right up to her and, before Arya is entirely sure what’s happening, presses a handful of papers against her chest, Arya’s hands coming up to catch them instinctively.

“Your lady sister told me you were good at creating things” the imp says, smiling slightly. “If you wouldn’t mind to take a look at my plans for your bother’s saddle, I’d be very grateful.”

And with that he turns back to his work, filling up another jug with fresh wine and sitting back down, leaving Arya to glare at him.

Eventually, she turns her attention towards the drawings and can’t help but to marvel at the precise and detailed lines that spread across the paper. The saddle is only a bit different from the previous one, sturdier and with more protection for the back. Clearly, the man had put a considerable amount of work into it.

“It will work,” Arya says, and does her best to not cringe at the roughness of her unused voice and the idiocy of the statement. The man was probably expecting more of her but she didn’t felt like talking about saddles.

Tyrion looks at her with his stupid smile once more and invites her to sit down next to him. He serves her a glass of wine, which she only takes a sip of, and tells her of how the seven kingdoms are slowly recovering from the war.

She stays and listens, humming along at the right moments and pretending to sip from her glass from time to time.

Until she hears Jon’s surprised, “Arya?” and sees him looking over at her and the man sitting next to her, who’s smiling softly at the young Stark. “What are you doing here?”

Arya is up like a flash, jerkily handing the papers over to Tyrion and saying her goodbyes before fleeing in the general direction of the back doors, chest tightening when Jon cries after her in confusion and disappointment.

“What the fuck happened?” she hears Tormund demand as she squeezes past the wooden doors, and stepping outside into the cold night.

What had she been doing? What had she been thinking?

She’s probably the last person who should be seen speaking to Jon’ hand, a goddamned Lannister, at night, in secret. She knows they’ll think the worst of her, that they will assume she was trying to manipulate him or, worse, gathering information to better plan his death. Maybe they'll even say that she's planning to go against Jon himself.

Arya knows what they say of her, of what she has done, of the people she worked for. It matters not that she helped them expose Baelish and end with his games, that she defeated the Night King and saved her brother from certain death. It matters not that she avenged their family and killed the people who slaughtered their brother and Lady Mother. It matters not that she returned and protected Jon so he could rule them as the kind and just man she knows him to be.

Arya stays outside for most of the night, hiding in the shadows and not answering when Jon comes after her. She’s not exactly enthusiastic to hear him tell her what she already knows; to please not meet with Tyrion when he’s alone again and stay away from an undoubtedly freaked out Tormund.


	2. Chapter 2

The maesters insist that everyone must go back to their old lives and try to live as normally as possible, for the sake of their minds and spirits, which means that Arya is supposed to help with all the ceremonies at Winterfell to welcome the new lords of the surviving houses. Jon tried to convince her to join Sansa but Arya never liked big feasts with lots of people, nor strangers walking into their home, so she leaves that task entirely to Sansa, who seems very happy at not being bothered by Arya’s crudeness.

After a couple of weeks of that, the suggestions to spend time with lords and ladies from other houses stop coming and Arya is relieved beyond measure, enjoying her free time to practice and design more weapons, until Jon starts insisting Arya join him for walks, every night after dinner.

They have to work up to it, though eventually, a leisurely stroll around the open, snow covered fields becomes a moment of peace instead of a chore or a test, and she actually begins to enjoy the fresh air and brief chats with Jon once again.

But of course it can’t stay that way, Arya isn’t allowed to keep the things she likes the way she likes them, and instead of waiting for her in the main hall, one night, Jon sends Arya a servant to ask her to meet him at the Godswood.

Which isn’t how this is supposed to go, Arya and Jon always leave together, Arya doesn’t meet Jon at the cart, they leave together, Jon isn’t left alone on an open field to fend for himself, he-

“Is everything alright, my lady?”

Arya doesn’t jump, her body has been trained for far too long to physically react like that, but her heart does, not having heard Tyrion approaching, and she curses herself for being so careless.

“Don’t call me that,” the words are out of her mouth before she can bite them down and Tyrion smiles at her, knowingly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you off to do something?” he asks and eyes Ghost and he walks past him and stops by Arya’s side. The direwolf’s happy bark is enough of an answer for the imp and he smiles back at her. “Mind if I keep you company? I’m certain I’ll go mad if I don’t get out of this walls outside every now and again.”

After taking a moment to compose herself and slow down her, for some reason, furiously thumping heart, Arya blurts, “We are going for a walk by the Godswood. Jon an’ me.”

Tyrion’s face lights up at that and, for a brief moments, he reminds her of the old Tyrion who didn’t know a life without peace and luxury. “I didn’t have the chance to see your sacred grounds, last time I was here. Do you think your Old Gods would mind the visit of a drunken fool like me?”

Arya wants to tell him that they won’t care just like they don’t care about any of them. That the only God who has never failed them - her - is the God of Death and that he’s always ready to claim what’s his.

However, she doesn’t says any of that, opting for shrugging and continuing her walk.

Jon’s waiting just as promised, eyes flickering from Arya to Ghost by her side to Tyrion and then Tyrion’s smile and raises a questioning brow.

Arya feels like she can breathe once again and her brother guides them through the snow, as they both listen to Tyrion talk about the most recent deal with some new House or how they managed to take down another slave city. She can feel Jon staring at her and every time she stares back at him, he wiggles his eyebrows at her and she offers him a small smile, which, makes him smile as well.

Maybe, Arya thinks, living isn’t that bad.

 

* * *

 

Hot pie arrives a few weeks after the battle and, true to himself, bakes a pie for Arya’s name day. Jon gives her a new sword, similar to Needle, and Ser Brienne of Tarth offers to teach her how to use both Needle and this new sword at the same time. Gendry surprises her by giving her a new handler for needle, one in the shape of a wolf and Sansa offers her a new leather vest, just like the one Father used when he left to King’s landing.

Bran smiled at her, during his morning walk around the castle, and made a joke about her having to dress like a lady for the ceremony. While his eyes were still hollow and haunted, there was a hint of Bran-ness in his voice and, for a moment, it gave her hope that her little brother would, someday, be a person again; that, maybe, one of them wouldn’t have to be No One.

She’s happy for most of the day but her happiness leaves her with a heavy heart because she knows she has done nothing to deserve it, to deserve all this love.  At one point, she finally realizes that this is the first name day she’s celebrating since she has left her home, and she her breath is knocked out of her chest.

The Hound, that stubborn bastard, find her in a dark hallway, trying to control her breathing. 

“What do you want from me,” Arya tries to growl but her voice comes out jagged and cracked, as if she was mid battle. She expects the man to growl back at her, maybe throw her the same old insults and storm off, but Clegane rolls his eyes at her and gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he tells her that soon people will come asking for her.

Arya hums along his words and lets him guide her to the training grounds. He doesn’t let her run away when children from all ages come to offer her rag dolls and fresh flowers and big smiles, nor when Tyrion himself shows up, pushing Bran’s chair with great effort. They remind her that she must get ready for the feast and ask them to join everyone in the dining hall just after sunset.

Rubbing at her still stinging eyes, Arya turns back to the training grounds, hesitating when she sees Sansa, who pretends to chat with yet another noble, trying to give them at least some semblance of privacy.

Arya chews at the inside of her cheeks, not sure how to react to all this attention. She hasn’t had a namesake feast since the day her father-

“I’ll get myself ready then,” Arya manages to choke out, wrapping her free arm behind her back and resolutely staring at a point somewhere over Bran’s right shoulder.

She takes off in silence, walking fast enough with her chin up, hoping it will be enough to keep people away. Not that she expects anyone else to try and chat her up. If they didn’t want to once she arrived at Winterfell, they most certainly didn’t now.  

Arya knows what they whisper about her, behind her back. Soft, frightened confessions, warning to the children that roam the streets and the soldiers that have to serve under her command: beware of the she-wolf; she’s more beast than woman. Arya Stark is a servant of death and she will stop at nothing to serve her God.

Arya doesn’t think they’re wrong.

Sansa finds her about an hour before the feast, looking as beautiful and regal as she’s expected to. Arya, on the other hand, is still in her sweaty, mud-ridden clothes, looking over the information she gathered about tonight’s guests.

She forces Arya into a nice dark grey dress and helps her style her hair into a simple, short braid. They stay in silence for most of it and it’s not until they leave, headed to the dining hall, that Sansa asks her what she plans to do next, once things go back to normal.

“I’m not sure yet”, the question catches her by surprise. As she planned and trained to avenge her family and kill each and every traitor that had hurt her family, she had never stopped to imagine what she would do next. She wasn’t even sure she was capable of nothing anything else. Killing was all she was good for. “Why?”

Sansa gives her an unsatisfactory answer and rushes them out the door after that, forcing the conversation to end. Arya, however, doesn’t need fancy words nor long explanations to understand the meaning behind her sister’s question: when are you leaving?

She pretends to have fun for the rest of the night. Lords come and go, offer her and House Stark their blessings and promise Jon to be loyal to him until their last breath but, as soon as they're done with the mandatory pleasantries, they step away from her and avoid talking or even looking at her.

She does her best to ignore them as well and enjoy the abundance of food and good wine amongst Gendry and Hot Pie, which manage to bring a smile to her lips from time to time.

She’s so absorbed in catching up with Hot Pie and Gendry that she doesn’t realise everyone’s staring at them - _no_ , she thinks bitterly, _they are looking at_ _me_ \- until someone awkwardly clears their throat. The conversations around the room dies abruptly and, from across the hall, Jon and Sansa glance up at her. Gendry notices, “maybe you should go spend some time with th-“

“I’m fine here,” Arya interrupts before he can finish, chin lifted and voice hard, making it clear that arguing would be futile. “They’re doing just fine without me.”

But she’s self-conscious now, unable to keep herself from wondering if she’s doing something wrong, and gladly re-fills her glass once more and pretends to listen to the troubadour from some neighbour house had brought with them for the feast.

Eventually, everyone turns to the singer themselves, stepping closer to hear him better and Arya, using everyone’s preoccupation, slinks away and out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing and watching the calm evening down below.

She doesn’t blame them, she really doesn’t.

She doesn’t want to be Arya Stark, either.

It’s the quiet sound of the door sliding open and then shut again that alerts the girl to someone else’s presence, the Hound - no, her mind corrects immediately, it’s Sandor now - coming to stand beside her, close enough for their arms to brush together.

After a moment of silence, Sandor says, “Come inside and stop your bastard boy and Brienne’s squire from drinking themselves to death?”

“Don’t wanna spoil everyone’s fun,” Arya mumbles, shaking her head. Sandor scoffs, rolling his eyes and opening his mouth, but Arya talks over him before he can come up with meaningless platitudes or downright lies. “I’m not stupid, you know. They can barely stand bein’ in the same room with me, I don’t-“

“They’re trying to give you space.”

Arya blinks, surprised, then demands, “The fuck they doin’ that for?”

“Because they're a bunch of idiot cunts,” Sandor shrugs, “well-meaning cunts, but still cunts.”

Arya doesn’t tells him that he can’t talk about her family like that because she knows it wouldn’t make a difference. Sandor will always be Sandor, no matter who’s talking to him.

“They’re avoidin’ me ‘cause they think that’s what I want?” Arya asks, crushed and disappointed and angry. “But why? What’d I do to- did I say somethin’ to- what have I done to make them think-“

“This isn’t your fault, she-wolf,” Sandor sighs exhaustedly, and he sounds like he knew this would happen and is annoyed that he has to go through it. He turns to face Arya, one hand reaching out to take her arm, curling around it for a soft squeeze. Arya stares at him in disbelief, she didn’t even know he could be soft.

“We’re all a little broken, comes with the job. We get shot at and thrown off towers, get kidnapped and hurt every other week, someone nearly dies, someone else really fucking dies, and it’s too much, it’s too much to deal with, to process. So we don’t. Well, most of us don’t. We try battling through all the shit on our own and assume that’s what everyone else wants as well. It’s a fucked-up situation, believe me, I know. But,” he shrugs again, and looks straight ahead, observing the cold and silent forest that surrounds Winterfell, “Your fancy brothers and sister can’t afford to do that anymore, not with a fucking war to fight and seven kingdoms to rule. So, they talk and hunt and plan. Or try to. Doesn’t always work.”

He falls silent once again, giving her a moment to take in his words. She hasn’t heard him say so much in one sitting. It’s late and it feels like her head is going to explode, just for trying to process everything he told her. 

“What I’m trying to say is to cut the fancy cunts some slack,” he whispers, finally locking eyes with her once more “don’t take everything they say or don’t say to heart. They’ll get their shit together sooner or later and until then you’ve got the bastard boy and fucking Brienne of Tarth and, well, me. If we aren’t too low for ya, Lady Arya Stark.”

Much to Arya’s mortification, she can feel tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, hastily swiping a hand over her face even though he knows it’s useless, that Sandor has seen already. “I just-“ she croaks, letting out a frustrated huff when her voice cracks embarrassingly. “I just want it to be over. I want everything to be over and not be reminded of- of- not be reminded all the time, and it’s hard and I hate it and I don’t know-“

Sandor’s fingers are warm on the back of her neck as he draws Arya into a hug which Arya returns almost desperately, tucking her face into Sandor’s chest to hide the tears and muffle the sobs.

“I’m so fuckin’ tired,” she hiccups wetly, then pulls back when Sandor’s half-question finally catches up with her. “An’ don’t call me that.” she stutters, internally kicking herself because now she’s making assumptions, reading into Sandor’s words. He doesn’t mean he’ll stick around her, not when she’s no longer in danger or when he can no longer sell her off to her own family. 

“Come back inside,” he whispers, patting her shoulder in a friendly manner, “go talk with your siblings and make fun of your drunk boyfriend.”

Arya takes a deep breath, exhales in a shudder and steps back, smiling a little. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.


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